Orphan Annie Got It Right The First Time
by brownpaperbags
Summary: Shawn's time away from Santa Barbara wasn't exactly how he'd made it out to be and the pain has never really gone away. He's kept his secrets, but when a corpse is discovered that is extremely similar to a killing spree seven years ago will Shawn be able to keep his past buried for long? And will he survive the journey he is being forced to take with a figure he thought he'd lost?
1. Life is Great

Life is great.

This was a mantra Shawn Spencer had learned to repeat over and over again when life was anything but. He had repeated it many times when he was on outings with his father and had been asked to perform some task entirely inappropriate for the age he'd been at the time. He had repeated it throughout the entirety of his parent's divorce. He repeated it like a prayer during his time away from Santa Barbara where he finally learned what it meant to truly lose someone dear and though he'd never spoken of his loss to anyone it was this thought that had kept him going.

Shawn Spencer repeated his mantra when things turned rough. And he was repeating it now, over and over again as he stared down into a ditch somewhere east of Highway 166. He could hear himself talking, spouting off some nonsense about the difference between porpoises and dolphins to Gus, recalling information from an _Animal Planet_ special he'd seen sometime the week prior.

What porpoises or dolphins had to do with anything, he wasn't sure, but it felt good to talk about something other than what he was looking at. He felt like he'd been punched and from the way Gus was staring at him he hadn't hid his feelings very well.

He looked away from his friend and stared back down at the corpse lying in a forgotten heap in the dirt. The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen and from the little Shawn could see of her face she had been very pretty. Her name, or so he'd been told, was Veronica Dunning and she had been a junior at some preparatory school in the swankier part of Santa Barbara.

She had been partying with friends the night she had disappeared and her absence hadn't been noted by her illegally drunk friends until the following morning when they had recovered from their drunken stupors long enough to realize that she was missing. Her parents had immediately contacted the SBPD and Shawn had requested, no that wasn't right, he had pestered and badgered Chief Vick to be put on the case. And he had done what he had promised to do. He had found her, but not before it was too late.

"Shawn," Gus said quietly. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Shawn breathed with forced joviality. "Just jonesing for some yogurty goodness, Gus. What do you say we stop by someplace on our way back to the office?"

Gus frowned, unconvinced, and Shawn punched him lightly in the shoulder.

"Gus," he said loudly. "Buddy, what I have I told you about eating Sour Patch Kids before lunch? It makes you all surly, dude."

"Shawn," Gus began. "You know that this has nothing to do with Sour Patch Kids."

"Sure, sure, buddy. Whatever you say."

Gus was about to say something else, but Lassiter stepped in between them, eyeing Shawn's eclectic dress ensemble with disgust.

"Spencer," he growled in his usual surly eating-Sour-Patch-Kids-before-lunch-tone. "What the hell are you wearing? It's ridiculous."

"What?" Shawn asked, pointing down to his shirt. "Lassiter, if you wanted one all you had to do was ask."

"Why in the hell would I want a shirt with a picture of your ugly mug plastered all over it," Lassiter snapped.

Shawn had been hoping for this sort of reaction. In fact, when he had seen the advertisement online boasting about shirts that could have any picture put on the front of it he had purposely dug through his old photos to find one of himself that would drive the older detective nuts. He had decided on one he had taken for a newspaper article perhaps three years previous. The picture showed his face, close up, and full of the cocky swagger that pissed Carlton off. His right eyebrow was raised in a seductive, come-hither expression and he had purposefully pouted his lips. He had the T-shirt company print a slogan on the bottom of the garment in large blue letters. 'Shawn Spencer…Psyductive Detective." Comic gold.

Of course, Gus and Jules had looked at him like he was nuts, and now, staring down at the body that had once contained the youthful spirit of Veronica Dunning, he couldn't help but agree with them.

Oh, how he wanted to hand this case over and walk away, never looking back. It reminded him too much of his past. A past he thought he'd left buried back in Chicago seven years ago along with the girl he'd been prepared to lose everything to save.

He shook his painful thoughts away and concentrated on looking for clues, but nothing came to him. Frustration rose in him and he forced himself to take a step back and regain control of his thoughts. His father had taught him early on that a distracted mind made mistakes and he couldn't afford mistakes now. There was too much to lose, too high a cost.

"Spencer," Lassiter was calling to him. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Just—just give me a minute," Shawn answered.

Shawn was aware of Gus's eyes trailing him like a hound with a scent. The man was his best friend, and always had been, but there were some things that Shawn could never tell him. Things that were his burden to bear. Things that were just too damn painful to—

"Damn," Shawn cursed quietly. "Why now? Why did this have to happen now? Everything was going so well!"

He didn't have to look at the grey, bruise mottled corpse of the young Victoria to know the intimate details of her murder. She had been murdered in the same way as the others all those years ago, their faces burned into him like a brand of shame.

"She was beaten," he said quietly to Lassiter, too tired to make a big show of his predictions. "Then strangled."

"We already know that," Carlton snapped impatiently. "What's with the number, Spencer?"

Shawn glanced down again and his eyes roamed over the number one carved deep into the flesh of her left shoulder. He felt sick.

"His calling card," Shawn answered. "He's letting us know the game is beginning."

"A game," Lassiter spat out. "This isn't a game, Spencer."

"That's how he looks at it," Shawn said. "Its just a big game to him, Lassie."

"Who?"

"I don't know," Shawn replied. "That's all I can tell you for now. Honestly, you have yet to understand that the spirits don't answer to me, Lassie. I answer to the spirits."

"Useless psychics," Carlton muttered, bending down to study Veronica's remains. "I can't believe that we pay you, Spencer. Honestly, what good are—hey, what's this?"

Shawn watched as he pulled something shiny and folded from somewhere beneath the body and his heart lurched. Lassiter shook the excess dirt that was still clinging to the outside edges of what looked to Shawn like a photograph and unfolded it with gloved hands.

Lassiter looked at it for a long moment then looked up at Shawn with an unreadable expression on his face. The young faux psychic shifted uneasily under the detective's penetrating gaze.

"Spencer," Carlton said softly. "What the hell is this?"

"The spirits tell me it's a puppy and kitten romping around in field of lollipops," he quipped, smiling uneasily. "Oh, no, wait—it's a…it's a…"

"It's you," Lassiter whispered, turning the picture around so Shawn could see. "And some woman…Spencer, what the hell is going on here? You've been acting funny ever since we arrived on the scene and now this?"

The woman in the picture stared back at him with an almost fierce intensity. Shawn felt his stomach tighten and he barely had time to turn away before he'd thrown up his manly breakfast medley of _Cheerios, Cap'n Crunch, _and _Lucky Charms_ doused in a healthy serving of chocolate milk.

He could hear his friends calling to him, but they sounded like they were far away. He had somehow fallen to his knees though he didn't remember doing so. The only thing he could think of was the woman in the photograph. The woman who had been beaming at the camera, red hair whipped around by the October wind, dainty gloved hands wrapped around his as he'd held her close.

The way her hair had smelled like strawberries, which had always seemed so fitting to Shawn. The way her lips felt against his and the way she let him hold her close to him. He had loved her the way he had always felt a man was supposed to love a woman, with all of his heart and every fiber of his being. Before the countless one night stands and three week flings, before Abigail, before Juliet, Shawn had loved a woman named Amy. And she had loved him, despite his flaws and his never quite serious personality. She had loved him and he'd been happy for the first time in long time.

And she had been ripped away from him by a sadistic bastard who enjoyed the feel of a woman's life slipping away beneath the palms of his hands. The killer had wanted to play a game with him and Shawn had lost. And, for a little while at least, he had lost himself.

Life is great, he told himself as he stood up shakily. Life is just fucking great.


	2. Four Score and Seven Years Ago

**Author's Note**: _This chapter ends a little abruptly because the next chapter is going to be a flashback. I will have a few of those in here to sort of add substance to the story. Anyways, I love reviews and am far more inclined to write more if I get them . They really help motivate me so….PLEASE REVIEW! Anyways, enjoy and I will work on the next chapter tomorrow morning._

Carlton Lassiter had seen a great many things in his ten years as detective and even more during his time as a rookie cop on the streets of L.A. He had once put a trio of clowns in the drunk tank after they had guzzled one too many and duked it out in the alleyway behind the bar, giant shoes squeaking and nasally voices distorted by bulbous red noses. There had been escaped monkeys from the L.A. Zoo and Botanical Gardens, numerous domestic disputes between a crazy man who sat outside his neighbor's homes and ranted loudly about his no good blow-up doll wife named Lucinda and their four nonexistent children, and even a cross-dressing prostitute named Ralph who had frequently promised to show him a good time if he ever took a fancy to the idea.

One thing he had never seen, however, was a shaken Shawn Spencer; until now, of course. If he were honest with himself the idea that Spencer would be disturbed by anything sent Lassiter's world spinning on its axis. The man was an annoyance, true enough, and certainly a farce, but Lassiter had to admit, however grudgingly, that Spencer contained a certain aptitude for keeping his cool at crime scenes. Even when shot and bleeding heavily, dangling from his car like some kind of macabre hood ornament Spencer had been the epitome of calm and collected, though Lassiter suspected the young man had been feeling anything but.

Now, however, as the young faux psychic sat across from him in one of the interview rooms Lassiter couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the kid. He was pale and obviously emotionally drained though Carlton had yet to discover why. For once he felt slightly guilty that he had to put Shawn on the spot and he tried to do so as gently as possible. Well, as gently as Carlton Lassiter was actually capable of anyway.

"Look," he sighed, folding his arms. "Shawn, you know you aren't a suspect so why can't you just work with us on this? All you have to do is tell us the deal with the photograph and we'll let you out of here. You can go home and play _Yahtzee! _with Gus or whatever the hell it is you guys do when you aren't here getting on my nerves."

"We prefer _Parcheesi_, Lassie. Or a nice game of _Mouse Trap. Yahtzee! _is so yesterday."

"Spencer," Carlton growled. "What is going on with the damn photograph?"

Shawn's hazel eyes flickered down at the picture lying face up on the cool, metal table. The expression on his face was so unlike the one on the Shawn in the photo that Lassiter wondered if they were even the same person. The flat virtual rendition of the man seemed to contain more life than the actual consultant sitting across from him.

"Just leave it be," Shawn said quietly. "Please, Lassie, just…drop this one, alright? In the name of our friendship."

"We aren't friends, Spencer."

"Fine. Drop it in the name of our friendship that we have in an alternate reality somewhere. Preferably one where _Flubber _actually exists and every Friday is free pizza day at _Domino's._"

"A girl is dead," Lassiter snapped, feeling only slightly guilty when Shawn flinched. "We don't have the luxury of dropping anything, Spencer. If you know something that could help us catch this son of a bitch then it's your duty to tell us about it."

Shawn remained silent and Lassiter sighed. Normally, Lassiter loved the Miranda Rights. In fact, reading said rights to his convicts was his favorite part of the arrest, followed closely by the satisfactory click of the cuffs as they snapped closed on his chosen prey. Now, however, Carlton wished he could do away with them all together just so he could figure out what the hell was going through Shawn's head.

"Did you know the victim?" Carlton continued, deciding to drop the photograph subject for the moment.

"No," Shawn said instantly. "The first time I saw her was in the picture the chief showed us at the beginning of the case, Lassie. Same as you."

"And how did you know where to find her, Spencer? She was in the middle of nowhere and you honed in on her location almost spot on."

Shawn raised his eyebrows at Carlton and smirked at him like he was the dumbest man alive. He even felt like it at times, but he would never admit that to the young man. If he did he would never hear the end of it and he doubted whether he could take Spencer's ribbings for very long before he drew his firearm and discharged it repeatedly in the kid's general direction.

"Dude," Shawn grinned. "You really don't get the whole concept of psychic, do you? I'm led by the spirits, Lassafrass. And I do what they—"

"Cut the bull shit," Carlton snapped. "You and I both know that you aren't psychic, Spencer. I don't know how you do the things you do, but you don't commune with any spirits and you don't see the future."

"I think you mean commute, Lassie."

"It's commune, you idiot. Did you even go to school as a kid?"

"I've heard it both ways. And I'll have you know I went to a wonderful school. It was off a street called Sesame and had a delightfully grouchy fellow living in a trashcan and big yellow bird taught gym. I'll be you'll never guess their names, Lassie. Grouchy and Big—"

"I will say it one more time, Spencer, and not again. A sixteen-year old girl is dead, her family is going through hell and you know something that could point us in the right direction, but all you want to do is sit here and talk about freaking _Sesame Street. _What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you even want to catch this guy?"

Shawn was silent for a long time. His eyes had gone a flat, metallic green color and if Lassiter believed in such nonsense he would say the kid's soul had flown the proverbial chicken coop. His teeth were clenched tightly and Carlton could see the muscles in his jaw working powerfully as he ground them together.

"Don't think for a second I don't want to catch that bastard," Shawn said finally, tone unlike anything Carlton had ever heard from him before. It was hard and as cold as ice. "He took something precious from me, Carlton. Something I will never get back. Don't you dare think for a second I don't want to catch him."

Lassiter blinked. Carlton? Since when did Spencer call him by his first name? And what had Shawn lost that was so important to him? His eyes flickered down to the woman in the photograph and the answer hit him like a bag of bricks. He felt…well, he felt like the world's biggest asshole.

"Spencer," he asked softly. "Did the person who killed Veronica Dunning also…well, did he….shit, this is harder than I thought."

"Ask it," Shawn ordered flatly. "Go ahead, Lassie. Ask it."

"Is the woman in the photo deceased, Spencer?"

"Yes," Shawn whispered.

"Jesus," Lassiter started. "Shawn, I'm so—"

"Don't say you're sorry," Spencer said harshly. "Say anything else, Lassie. Just not that."

"Alright," Carlton said gently, trying to swallow past the lump of discomfort in his throat. "Was the woman…what was her name?"

"Amy," Shawn replied quietly, lifting his hands to cover his face so he could show his pain without Lassiter being privy to it. "Amy Coronado."

Carlton didn't mind that at all. He was a damn good detective and his first priority in any situation was to keep people safe, but when it came to comforting and offering condolences he had little luck. O'Hara had frequently told him it was because he lacked tact, which, he supposed, was true. He usually left such difficult tasks to her and she seemed to like it that way.

"Right," Lassiter coughed awkwardly. "Amy. Was Veronica Dunning and Amy Coronado killed by the same person?"

"I…I believe so," Shawn said softly. "Yes."

"So…he's coming after you then. Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't know what his end goal is, Lassie. I haven't figured that out yet. But…but, I know why he's here in California and why he left the photo."

"Why's that?"

"He's mocking me," Shawn spat, flat eyes suddenly sparking with fury. "He's making sure I remember how I failed."

"Failed what?" Carlton urged gently.

"Everything," Shawn said, bowing his head. "Failed to catch him. Failed to find out who he even is. Failed to save her…to save Amy."

"What the hell happened seven years ago, Spencer."

"That's a long story," Shawn said bitterly. "And not a happy one."

"I've got time," Lassiter replied. "Tell me."

At first, Lassiter thought that Spencer wasn't going to tell him a damn thing. He sat there across from him, looking at him like he was the most vile creature on the planet. Hell, perhaps he was. He was asking the perpetually cheerful man to relive a time that was obviously filled with a great deal of pain and heartache.

In the end, however, Shawn had nodded slightly, taking a large gulp of lukewarm water from the small glass sitting on the interrogation table. His hands were shaking, but Carlton didn't dare comment and remained silent, waiting for the young man to begin.

"Seven years ago," he murmured. "A year or so I guess before I finally made my way back here and started Psych. I was in Chicago and the first time I met Amy Coronado was at the carnival on the pier there. She was playing the balloon dart game, you know the one, you throw the darts at the balloons and if you pop them you get a prize? Well, she was playing that and I knew the instant I saw her that I had to meet her."


	3. Cupid's Funhouse

**Author's Note: **_As usual, reviews are always appreciated!_

Shawn sighed, watching with detached distaste as his breath plumed out in front of him in the chilled Chicago air. He wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him to say yes to Crazy Jimmy's offer to accompany him and a gaggle of his groupie friends to Navy Pier, but he had and since Jimmy was his ride he was stuck right where he was, like it or not.

It wasn't that he didn't like Crazy Jimmy. Shawn was hard pressed to find someone he didn't at least get along with, unless one counted his father, which he didn't. Jimmy was a co-worker at the local pizzeria Shawn was currently employed at and had the difficult task of doing as little work as possible down to an art form. Mike Sanders, the owner of the joint, never fired the kid because he said that when he had the inclination Jimmy could work like a bat out of hell and, besides, he was funny. And making Mike Sanders laugh was equivalent to a sacrifice to the gods in their little haven of marinara sauce and pizza crust.

Crazy Jimmy wasn't crazy, either. He was the lead singer of a band called Crazy Jimmy and the Muskrats, though if you asked him he would have no idea where the name had originated. He shrugged it off to a few too many beers and the best bowl of Mary Jane he'd ever smoked. The nickname, Crazy Jimmy, had followed shortly after and had stuck to him like glue. Shawn had heard him play once or twice in little dive bars around the city and found, to his great surprise, that Jimmy wasn't half bad. He had the gravely voice that many rock singers coveted and if he lost the two pubescent back up singers and worked on his finger work with the guitar he might make something of himself.

Girls followed Jimmy around like he was the Adonis of the modern world. Shawn suspected the soft, silky brown hair down to his waist and well-muscled arms covered in tattoos had something to do with it. He had a pleasant, open face and was tall with broad shoulders and whether or not he would actually grace the walls of the Rock Hall of Fame he acted like he had. His stage presence was something to be admired and Shawn, who knew a thing or two about how to make people pay attention to him, was impressed.

Still, following along behind Jimmy and his fishnet clad girlfriends was not what Shawn had in mind for his evening. He had planned to call Gus that night and order in a heaping pile of dumplings, rice, and sweet and sour pork from the Chinese restaurant down the street from his apartment that also offered a strange assortment of unidentified meats that Shawn still hadn't worked up the courage to try. Perhaps they would have watched the movie _Jaws_, Gus in California and he in Chicago, their cell phones left on speakerphone so they could chat during the movie.

Watching _Jaws _in the month of October was a tradition dating back to their childhood. They had snuck the movie from Henry's collection of VHS cassettes labeled OFF-LIMITS…THAT MEANS YOU SHAWN! in big block letters. The moment the film had started, camera zooming in underwater as if from the eyes of the behemoth shark, Gus had his face half-hidden beneath the blankets so that he could cover his eyes at a moments notice. Shawn, on the other hand, delighted in every blood-curdling scream and flash of fin, as any ten-year old boy was inclined to do.

They might have gotten away with their midnight treachery, but Gus's sudden terror of water deeper than his ankles sent suspicion sweeping through Henry in a flood of fatherly intuition. After assigning Shawn some mundane task like sweeping off the patio, Henry had sat Gus down in what Shawn called 'The Hot Seat' in hushed and reverent tones. He'd been through many interrogations in that chair and, if Shawn were to be believed, his father had put him through countless unspeakable tortures while he'd sat there strapped down and unable to move. Of course, Henry had never done any such thing but a mind like Shawn's was not to be discouraged from dramatizing any situation to the point of outrageousness.

At age ten, however, Gus was inclined to believe anything Shawn told him and though he'd also been through an interrogation or two his thoughts always raced to the water boarding torture he'd read about in one of his history books. He broke, almost instantly, and Shawn was grounded for two weeks.

Now, as adults, they watched the film for tradition's sake more than anything else. Though Shawn still felt the primal chill of fear whisper down his spine during the first ten minutes of the movie. There was something unquestioningly terrifying about being dragged down into the depths by some unseen assailant.

"Shawn," Jimmy called, pulling the young Californian from his thoughts. "Dude, you're lollygagging. What gives?"

"Sorry," he called. "I got sidetracked by the cotton candy booth. They've got the green kind, Jimmy. I can't say no to the green kind."

"I hate the green kind," one girl said, pouting her rouge colored lips and putting a possessive hand around Jimmy's bicep.

He shook her off and she looked hurt, but didn't say anything. The young rock god walked to his side and looked down at him with surprisingly intelligent eyes. He looked comfortable in his jeans filled with fashionable tears and holes and his thin leather jacket. Shawn felt like he was turning into an icicle.

"You alright?" Jimmy asked. "You seem a little off tonight, buddy."

"Naw," Shawn denied. "Just not used to being this far north. It's cold out here, dude."

Jimmy looked at his large coat dubiously and snorted. "I'm pretty sure an entire polar bear went into making your jacket, man. WWF and PETA would be having a holy shit fit if they saw you in that thing."

"I'm from California," Shawn grumped. "Home of the year round bikini babe and street names like Sunnyside Ave. and Balmy Blvd. We don't get cold like this."

"We can go if you want," Jimmy offered, tone making it very clear that leaving was the last thing he wanted to do. "I can drop you off by your place and come back later."

"No way," Shawn said, glancing at Rouge Girl who was looking at him in distaste. "Your girlfriends might cause a riot while you're gone, man. I'd hate to be the cause of all that chaos."

"Sure you would," Jimmy snorted. "Look, let me take Jenna on the merry-go-round and then we can settle down for the fireworks, alright? Then we'll go."

"Alright," Shawn agreed amiably. "I think I'll play a couple of the games. Too much spinning either makes me puke or turns me into the Tazmanian Devil. Neither options are great fun."

"Those things are rigged," Jimmy warned, but Shawn smiled.

"Trust me," he said. "They can't get away with that with me."

"What?" Jimmy asked playfully. "Are you some kind of psychic?"

"Something like that," Shawn laughed.

"Prove it," Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows.

Shawn glanced at him, eyes darting over his muscled frame with precision born from years of training. He could hear his father's commanding bass tones ordering him to pay attention to the tiniest of details. In some ways, Shawn could never truly escape Henry. He was always in the back of his mind and Shawn grit his teeth against the sudden onslaught of fury that swept through him.

"Those sneakers you are wearing," Shawn said absently. "You've had them since you were in high school. They were given to you by someone you loved, your mom perhaps? You were burnt by something around the age of ten. I am going to guess and say it was a firecracker, but I could be wrong on that. You have at least one fish along with the two dogs. Oh, and you aren't in the least bit interested in Jenna. I'm guessing she's one of your friend's sisters or something that you are just trying to be nice to."

Jimmy looked at Shawn in pure shock, his mouth dropped open and his eyes wide in disbelief. Shawn waited patiently for him to say something, a small knowing smile quirked on his lips.

"Shit," Jimmy finally breathed. "Dude, that was amazing. How did you know all that?"

"A magician never explains his tricks," Shawn replied with an apologetic shrug.

"You aren't a magician," Jimmy reasoned. "You're a psychic."

"I've heard it both ways."

"Jimmy," Jenna, the girl with the rouge lips, called. "Are you coming? Meghan and I want to go on the merry-go-round."

"Go on," Shawn said, flipping his head towards them. "You're fans are waiting."

"This isn't over," Jimmy whispered in awe. "Later? We'll talk about it?"

"Sure," Shawn agreed. "Later, dude."

Jimmy backed away from him, expression pondering and thoughtful. He turned on his heels inches before he ran into the two girls accompanying him and wrapped his arms in theirs. He shot one last glance back at Shawn and grinned.

"Cool trick," he said finally. "Talk to you in a bit, dude."

Shawn raised his hand in a silent farewell and watched them meander out of sight. He turned with a sigh and made his way towards the midway watching as the ebb of people flowed around him. If Shawn wanted to he could instantly attain knowledge about each of them, some of it superficial and some of it damaging.

The man with the blue jeans holding on to the hand of a small girl with cotton candy smeared across her face was having an affair, smiling at his wife with the desperation of a caged animal. The old man running the Ferris wheel was a recovering alcoholic and if the way he fingered his last AA token was any indication he was strongly considering getting a drink after his shift. The teenage girl standing with a handsome young man as he patiently tried to win her a stuffed elephant on the ring toss had only recently discovered she was pregnant and judging by her expression was trying to decide how to tell the unsuspecting father.

These were intimate details of people's lives that Shawn had no business knowing, but did. Sometimes he wished there was an off switch to his abilities and that he could choose to turn them on only when needed.

He stopped his aimless walk and turned his attention on the games spread out along the midway, their scheming callers going about their nefarious business of luring in the unsuspecting public with word plays and false promises. Lights flashed and blurred in a mindless pattern and music tinkled from speakers set high above the crowd, creating a dreamscape of childlike innocence and magical possibilities.

Shawn heard the harsh pop of a balloon somewhere off to his right and he turned his head towards the sound. There was a small crowd of people near the Balloon Pop stand and Shawn made his way towards it, pulled by some unexplainable need to see who was at the center of it all.

"Two more balloons ladies and gentleman," the caller announced as Shawn made his way to the side. "Then the lovely lady gets her prize."

Shawn's eyes swept the crowd and landed on the woman in question, one eye shut tight and her lips pursed in concentration as she took aim. The woman was beautiful, sure enough. Dark auburn hair cut short framed her heart shaped face perfectly and her skin was the color of milk and honey, with a touch of natural blush on her cheeks. Her eyes were green and intelligent and her little pixie nose was quirked up slightly at the end, lending her face a playful, humorous quality. Her lithe frame was clad in casual blue jeans, white t-shirt, and tight fitting leather jacket that framed her curves flatteringly.

She was beautiful, true, but it wasn't her beauty that drew Shawn closer. It was her energy. Every eye was on her and she demanded attention without ever asking for it. She was a force of nature and Shawn knew he had to talk to her, to hear her voice say his name.

"Come on, Amy," a mousy woman standing beside her cheered. "You can do this! Show that sucker who is boss!"

"Shhh," the woman named Amy laughed. "I'm concentrating, Jess. That lion is mine."

Amy carefully took aim and threw the dart. Shawn watched it fly and measured the distance and the trajectory in which he threw it with his eyes. He knew instantly that she would hit it, but he still held his breath until he heard the satisfactory pop of exploding air.

"Yes," Jess cried, jumping up and down excitedly. "You got it!"

"Still one more," Amy replied with a small smile. "Then I've got it."

She took the last dart in her fingers, twisting it around and testing the weight. Shawn glanced at it and immediately saw the cheat. The point had been dulled and Shawn knew that if and when it touched the balloon it would merely glance off and plop to the frostbitten dirt with a disappointing thump. Amy would lose out on the stuffed lion she'd been working to win and the caller would walk away with a clear conscience and a few extra bucks. Not going to happen.

"Wait," Shawn called, seconds before she let the dart fly. "That's a bad dart."

The crowd turned towards him and he grinned, tucking his frozen fingers in his pockets. Amy was looking at him in confusion and her friend Jess was looking at him distrustfully.

"What the hell are you yapping about?" the caller snapped, jowls quivering in anger. "I ain't got no bad darts."

"I would check again," Shawn said easily. "The one she's about to throw isn't even sharp."

Amy looked down at her dart and her eyes widened in disbelief. She touched the tip of the dart with a manicured finger and when she pulled back she was staring at the caller with pursed lips.

"He's right," Amy said softly. "The thing would have bounced right off."

Whispers broke out in the small crowd standing around them and the caller glanced around uneasily. He knew he would lose business if he didn't play this situation off right and Shawn could tell he was trying to come up with a way to keep his losses to a minimum.

"Now, now," he said loudly. "I'm sure this was just a mistake, folks. I ain't a cheat, you know. I run a fair and clean game and always have, but I ain't perfect. Accidents happen."

"So I suppose you'll give her a new dart then," Jess said pointedly.

"Of course," the caller barked, pulling one from the pouch hanging on his apron and setting it in front of her. "There you are, miss."

Amy took the new dart in slender fingers and moved close to Shawn. She held it up in front of his face and smiled. She smelled like strawberries and it was all Shawn could do to not breath in deep.

"Take a look, Hawkeye," she said quietly. "Anything you see I should know about?"

Shawn smiled at her and took an obliging glance at the dart. He shook his head and she grinned, revealing straight white teeth pressed pleasantly against her plump lips.

"Good," she whispered. "Stick around for a minute, hero. I want a word with you."

Shawn suddenly felt very warm and he shivered deliciously in his jacket. Amy's lips quirked and she turned back to the board covered in overly cheery pink balloons and took aim once more. With a tiny cry she threw the dart with practiced precision and the balloon exploded outward sending tiny pieces of rubber shrapnel fluttering to the ground.

"Annnnd we have a winner," the caller shouted, pulling the white fuzzy lion from off the top rack. "Good game, little lady. Good game."

Amy took the white lion appreciatively and tucked it under one arm as Jess cheered and the crowd dispersed. She accepted the praise with a humble smile and a word of acknowledgment, but her eyes were focused on Shawn with a sort of intense curiosity.

"So," she said, eyes twinkling in the light of the midway. "Does my knight and shining armor have a name?"

"I have many names," Shawn replied seriously. "MC Hammer, The Masked Avenger, Sir Awesome, just to name a few. But, most people call me Shawn."

"Shawn," Amy laughed. "Hmmm…I like The Masked Avenger, but there's a problem."

"What's that," Shawn asked, smiling.

"You don't have a mask," she replied.

"Damn," Shawn said, frowning. "I must have left it in the Shawnmobile. I'm always doing that. Ricardo will be gloating as we speak."

"Ricardo?"

"My arch nemesis, of course. And my butler."

"You're arch nemesis is your butler? You are certainly the most puzzling super hero I have yet to come across, Mr. Avenger."

"Just Avenger, if you please," Shawn said playfully. "Mr. Avenger is my father. And no, my butler and my nemesis are both named Ricardo. They're identical twins, you see. One is good and the other is evil."

"Identical twins with the same name," Amy said with a snort of amusement. "Cruel parents…or really stupid ones."

"Actually," Shawn corrected. "It's pure genius, if you think about it. If they are both named Ricardo you don't have to worry about telling them apart. You address the right one every time because they have the same name."

"Ah," Amy said. "I see the genius in their plan now, Avenger. So, what exactly does a butler to a superhero do?"

"Cleans my spandex," Shawn said, pleased when Amy laughed. "You wouldn't believe how filthy they get when you're fighting the evils of humanity. We go through an entire container of super bleach every load."

"Super bleach," Amy repeated, eyebrow raised. "And what, may I ask, is that?"

"A combination of bleach and a secret ingredient," Shawn said with mock severity. "It's highly combustible, Miss—"

"Amy," she said, though Shawn already knew. "Can I know what this secret ingredient is?"

"I could tell you but I'd have to—"

"Kill me," Amy laughed. "Sure."

"Amy," Jess interrupted, smirking at the two of them with a knowing grin. "Caleb just called me. He's off work and he wants to get together. Will you be alright here by yourself?"

"Well," Amy said, eyeing Shawn with a small smile. "What do you say, Avenger? Keep me company tonight? I want to watch the fireworks."

"As long as the city doesn't need me I think we should be good," Shawn grinned.

"Oh," Amy nodded. "So, should I watch the skies for some kind of signal?"

"Yeah," Shawn replied. "Look for a Weinercar in the sky. That's my signal."

She laughed and Shawn felt the happy buzz of pleasure sweep through him. It had been a long time since he'd felt so giddy and he wondered if she felt the same. He waited patiently for her to say goodbye to Jess who watched him with the not quite trusting gaze of a best friend. Her concern didn't bother him because he knew that Gus would have done something similar if he'd been at Shawn's side, though Shawn would have stopped his questioning just short of the Crazy Test.

The Crazy Test had started Shawn's junior year in high school after he had dated a girl whose marbles ricocheted around in her head like bouncy balls thrown against a hard surface. Jill MacDougall seemed normal enough when Shawn had asked her out, but Shawn quickly learned that the calm waters on the surface belied the surging, seething chaos beneath. Stacy Henrickson had approached him the day after his date with Jill merely to request the use of his leather duster he'd worn as a Halloween costume the year previous for a prop in the play the senior class was putting on. Jill, however, saw her request as something more, perhaps a sneaky way of encroaching on her clearly marked territory, and had proceeded to tackle the senior girl, growling as she punched and bit with a sort of animal ferocity. Ever since that moment Gus had taken it upon himself to bludgeon any of Shawn's dates with a series of questions that began with how many cats is reasonable at one time and ending with how much a girl felt like stabbing someone on a scale of one to ten.

Jess finally left and Shawn was suddenly alone with the red haired vixen named Amy. She studied him beneath lowered lashes and he felt his mouth go dry. What the hell was he supposed to say to her? It had seemed so easy before, when they had been flushed from their victory over the caller and his dastardly scheme, but now that the initial glow had worn off all Shawn felt was his nerves sliding around in his belly like overcooked spaghetti noodles.

"I like the green kind," he blurted and she blinked.

"What?"

"Sorry," Shawn said, wincing. "I meant I like green cotton candy. I saw a stand a little ways back. Do you want some?"

"Am I allowed to pick my own color?" she asked playfully. "Or am I limited to green?"

Shawn grinned gratefully, pleased that she had chosen to overlook his nervous outburst with all the grace and humility of a queen. He motioned for her to walk beside him and, as they paid for their cotton candy and made their way down to the dock to watch the fireworks he found that talking to her was as easy as breathing.

She was everything he'd hoped she would be and as the first bloom of red sparks shimmered across the sky he worked up the courage to take her hand in his own. He knew his fingers were cold and he was sure that hers felt similar, but the moment his skin touched hers all he could feel was heat.

When the final barrage of fireworks exploded above them neither Shawn nor Amy were paying any attention. Shawn had kissed her and with the feel of her lips moving against his and her fingers against the back of his neck, pulling him closer, Shawn felt like he was flying up in the sky with the fireworks bursting around him in a kaleidoscope of color and sound, past the stars and the moon, past the blazing sun and into heaven. Or, since he wasn't sure where he stood with the Big Guy Upstairs, into Neverland, where he would join Peter Pan in his wish to stay stuck in a single moment for all eternity, but instead of never growing up he would wish to remain by Amy's side, with the smell of strawberries surrounding him and the feel of her fingers in his hair.


	4. Lies the Brady Bunch Told Me

**Author's Note: **_So sorry it took me so long to update, but here is the next chapter for your reading enjoyment. Thanks so much for the reviews. It makes it easier to write when I get feedback, so please, if you take the time to read please take a minute to tell me what you think. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this. It doesn't really further the plot much but it fills in some blanks between Henry and Shawn. Tell me what you guys think and, as always, thanks for reading!_

Henry Spencer's relationship with his son had always been a strenuous one. Once, when he'd been browsing _Barnes and Noble_ for something interesting to read he'd come across a book on one of the central displays that instantly intrigued him. It was the kind of book Henry normally steered clear of, but for reasons he could not understand he kept coming back to it, staring down at the title with bewilderment. He was sure it was written by some burned out hippie that had spent their early years smoking dope and sticking it to the felicific war machine that was 1960's America.

Still, despite the promise of an author with a PhD in bullshit and the general self-help genre, Henry snatched it up, hiding it behind his back as if someone he knew might be watching him. The book was titled "_But, I Don't Wanna" _and the back of the book jacket promised an in depth explanation of how to tell if a parent's relationship with their child was in danger of imploding. Or, in some cases, exploding…violently.

Henry realized that his son was not a child nor was he a teenager, but a full grown adult with the capability of slamming the door in Henry's face or, even worse, leaving without so much as a word like he had before. Shawn rarely wanted advice from his father and even when he did it was like pulling out teeth to get the kid to admit it. Of course, if Henry were honest, he hadn't always been very easy to talk to in the first place. There had always been a price to his wisdom, a hoop that Shawn had to jump through to get something other fathers doled out for free. By the time he'd realized this he'd spent so long not talking to his son that any attempts to do so then blew up in his face. This is what he wanted to change, this is what he hoped the book would teach him how to do. If there was even the slightest chance the hippie tome in his hands could help him salvage his relationship with Shawn then he'd buy a hundred copies to accomplish it.

When he'd opened the book for the first time he was safely at home with his door securely locked just in case Shawn chose that moment to show up with a question about some hair-brained case he'd gotten himself involved in. The younger Spencer was notorious for catching his father in awkward and sometimes downright humiliating situations, but Henry would be damned if the kid walked in on him reading a self-help book. There were some things that even a father and a son couldn't share.

He flipped through a few of the pages, snorting in derision at any hippy "love" propaganda he came across. As he had suspected most of the exercises in the book were utter bullshit, but one caught his eye. It asked the reader to think of an image that described the relationship between them and their child. Whatever the first image was that popped into the reader's mind was usually a correct summary of their circumstances. Henry didn't know why he chose to think about it, but he did and the image that came to mind shocked him. His relationship with Shawn was an egg precariously balanced on a thin wire above a giant cliff that fell into the ocean that was swimming with sharks.

At first he'd scoffed at the vision that came into his mind. It felt slightly dramatic to him, but the more he thought about it the more the vision made sense to him. His relationship with Shawn was a constant struggle to stay balanced and the slightest move could bring the whole thing toppling down into a destructive end. For years they had kept up a constant battle of tug-of-war, never gaining any ground but never really losing any either, but one day the rope would snap and any hope of bringing Shawn closer to him would be lost. That was an inacceptable casualty in Henry's mind and from that moment on he tried not to push as hard when it came to his son's decisions.

Sometimes this was easy. He'd long ago come to the terms with the fact that Shawn did things differently than Henry would and he recognized his son's lack of professionalism in almost anything he did as a part of Shawn's ability to handle the various stresses in his life. He could ignore the jokes, turn a blind eye to Shawn's chosen profession, and even help him if he could. Sometimes, despite his best efforts, their interactions together still ended with a fight, but he couldn't help but notice that as the years went by Shawn sought him out more than he ever had in his life. Henry no longer had to fight tooth and nail just to get Shawn to join him for dinner and the long awkward silences that had plagued them so often began to decrease. Henry knew they would never be perfect, knew that there was too much history for that, but at least they were at peace with one another and that was more than Henry had ever hoped for.

Still, despite their tenuous hold on harmony, there were moments that Henry found it extremely difficult if not impossible to keep his nose out of Shawn's business. All Henry had ever wanted was to keep Shawn safe. Everything he'd taught him, all the skills he'd painstakingly pounded into his son's brain had been to protect his kid in the only way he knew how and teach him the skills that could one day save his life. Maddy had once told him he was turning paranoid, but Henry thought that a little paranoia was a price worth paying if even one of his lessons saved Shawn's life. And they had. More than that they had given Shawn the first career that actually made him happy. As long as Shawn was safe and relatively content in life then Henry would be to.

The two years Shawn had been gone from his life had been the worst two years of his life. He would never tell his son, but he'd almost gone insane with worry. Shawn had left without a word on a contraption that Henry was still convinced would be the death of him one day. That damn motorcycle had caused more fights between them than almost any other topic besides, maybe, his mother or Shawn's perceived disappointment Henry had in him. The memory of the kid's first accident on the bike still gave plagued him at night and the sight of Shawn lying battered and bruised in the hospital bed was not one he would easily forget. The doctors had told him that his son was extremely lucky to be alive and that if the good Samaritan that had found Shawn on the side of the road had come a mere five minutes later there was a good possibility his son would be coming home in a coffin.

In the end it was the accident that had broken them. Shawn had been forced to recuperate at his father's house. In those days putting the two of them in the same room together had been like putting two Beta fish in the same fish tank. Maybe if Shawn had been able to use his legs, to walk out and cool down, things would have ended differently. But, he couldn't walk away, couldn't do much of anything but listen to his father berate him for crashing the damn thing and for riding something as dangerous as a motorcycle without a helmet. Henry knew, even as the words spewed from his mouth, that he was being too hard. He could tell from the way Shawn's face arranged itself in a neutral mask that he was pushing his son away from him one sentence at a time. He knew this, but he couldn't seem to stop.

He wanted to tell Shawn of the terror he'd felt when the phone rang and the cool and annoyingly formal hospital operator informed him that his son had been in an accident. He wanted to describe the helplessness that threatened to drown him when he walked through the door to his room in the ICU to find him covered in wires and tubes, breathing only by the grace of the machine in the corner. How he had sat by his bedside and prayed to a God he had long ago lost faith in for his son to make it through the night, how relief had filled him when Shawn's eyes had finally flickered open, confused and full of pain, how he'd fought with the doctors when they refused to give Shawn ice chips even though he was restless with thirst, and how he'd cried in the tiny cubicle the hospital called a bathroom nearly every time Shawn went white with pain Henry could not banish. This was what he wanted to tell his son, but he couldn't find the words and by the time the agony of those memories faded away it was too late. Shawn was gone.

He remembered walking into the living room that morning, glancing over at the bundle of blankets Shawn would be sleeping under, and asking his son what he wanted for breakfast. Only silence greeted him, but that was not unusual. Shawn had never been an early riser and had been a deep sleeper even as an infant. Henry called his name again and when he received no answer walked over to the couch to shake his son's shoulder. Except there was no shoulder to shake, only a bunched up pile of discarded blankets that still held the heat of Shawn's body. Even then he wasn't worried. Shawn had been walking quite well recently and could easily manage his way around the house, or even around the block, if he moved carefully. Perhaps he was in the bathroom or outside on the patio, or even taking a stroll along the pier. But he hadn't been strolling or anything else. He'd been stuffing clothes from his small apartment into a duffel bag waiting for Gus to come and drive him to the body shop where his newly reformed motorcycle was waiting for him.

Henry had received a call two hours later from a frantic Gus informing him that Shawn had split. His son had offered no explanation to his best friend, no reason for leaving so suddenly, only a promise to call and to send a postcard when he could. Henry had tried to track him down, but he'd taught his son too well. Shawn had never been one for credit cards and he'd ditched his phone in a dingy diner in Chino. Henry had nothing, but the promise of post card. He knew, however, that if Shawn sent him a card it would only be after he'd moved on to a new place. The kid knew his father too well to make a rookie mistake like sending him a postcard with a return address he'd still be at.

Henry had tried to keep living his life the way he had been before Shawn had left, but it had been nearly impossible. He received updates from Gas periodically, but his kid never gave up too much information on his whereabouts because he knew that Guster broke far too easily when interrogated by Henry. The little Spencer had even gone so far as to make his number restricted so that Gus wouldn't have a phone number to give his father. To this day he had no idea what went on in those two years, but there was one thing he was certain of. His son had changed.

Henry could tell from the moment he opened his door to find Shawn staring at him appraisingly from across the threshold for the first time in almost 800 days. It was a subtle change and not one Henry would have noticed had he not been trained in the art of reading body language. There was a hardening to his son's eyes, a darkness that only grief could bring and a tension in his shoulders that had not been there before. His smile wasn't as bright and his tone held a level of bitterness that even Henry had never heard before. Something had happened to his kid, something bad, and Henry wanted to know what it was.

Except Shawn refused to talk about it. The transformation brought on by even mentioning his time away was something both unexpected and terrifying. His features went flat and his eyes became as lifeless as the once a planet, but no longer a planet Pluto. His tone was hard and unforgiving, something Henry was not used to hearing, even in their worst fights. Shawn had always used bitter sarcasm when it came to their arguments and his harsh words only made Henry worry more.

The first time he'd ever mentioned it to Shawn had been a month after his awkward return. _Psych_ was just beginning to take off and for once Shawn seemed excited about the prospect of working. He wasn't sure where Shawn had gotten his gift for gab, but if the subject was right Shawn could talk for hours. They had spent a relatively pleasant dinner of steaks and beer chatting about the new detective Juliet and Shawn's general amusement over the hard-assed Carlton Lassiter. They had been clearing up the dishes when Henry asked him the question he had wanted to take back the moment the words had crossed his lips.

"What the hell happened to you when you were gone, kid?"

Shawn, who had been stacking their plates, froze and his fingers tightened reflexively on the porcelain. Henry watched the transformation of his kid from relatively jovial to cold and distant with alarm and he couldn't deny the chill that ran up his spine. Shawn didn't say anything for a long moment, getting control of himself and rearranging his features into a mask of unconvincing indifference.

"What do you mean?" he asked, looking up at Henry and smiling tightly.

"You've been different, Shawn. Even Gus has noticed a change," Henry replied softly.

"You and Gus talk? About me? Are there no father-friend boundaries anymore?"

"We're worried about you, Shawn."

"Well, that's a first."

"Damn it, kid. Talk to me!"

"About what, Dad?" Shawn snapped, his grip tightening so hard on the plates Henry was sure they would crack. "There is nothing to talk about. We have nothing to say to one another."

"Shawn, where did you go?"

"I went to a lot of places," Shawn said with an indifferent shrug. "None of them were particularly special."

"I don't believe that."

"Believe what you want," Shawn said wearily. "I, for one, choose to believe that there is an alternate dimension where the earth is made out of nacho cheese _Doritos _and the trees are licorice wands. Not the black kind, though. The black kind sucks."

"Shawn," Henry pleaded. "Don't do this, kid."

"Do what?"

"Shut me out," Henry said.

Shawn was quiet for a long moment, staring down at the table as if it had personally accosted him. Henry could see the inner struggle he was facing, the metaphorical ping-pong game going on in his kid's mind. On the one hand, he could tell his father the truth and potentially open himself up to pain and grief. On the other he could keep his secrets to himself and battle his demons without the aid of his father's wisdom. Henry could see the decision his son had made even before Shawn said it out loud and his heart plummeted. Perhaps if their relationship were different, perhaps if the perilous emotional chasm between them weren't so deep things would have ended the way Henry hoped they would, but as he learned long ago hopes were for fools.

"You really want to know what I did?" Shawn asked, finally glancing up at his father with the bitter sarcasm Henry was so used to in his eyes. "I went to Montana and spent a month wrangling cats. You know, like that old beer commercial with the cowboys herding a pack of stampeding felines? It was sort of like that, but instead of horses we rode on Mastiffs and smoked catnip…or it could have been Peyote…my memory is sort of foggy on that one."

"Shawn," Henry began.

"No, Dad. You wanted to know what I did and I'm telling you. Don't ask me a question if you're not interested in an answer. Isn't that what you've always told me?"

Henry didn't have anything to say to that. He had, in fact, spent years telling Shawn that exact phrase, but had never expected to have it bite him in the ass. His son must have taken his silence as permission to continue for a second later he'd began his story again.

"Let's see," he said thoughtfully. "After Montana I made my way down to Texas where I became an overnight arcade sensation after I beat the world record of Skee balls thrown in a single evening. Let me tell you, Dad, it was a lot of Skee balls and I made sure to thank you in the speech I gave for the news. I am sure you could find it on _Youtube. _Just type in 'the incredible Shawn Spencer' and you would be amazed at how many videos pop up. Just don't watch the one made by 'madeforyou22'. It will take years of therapy to scrub that one from the memory warehouse."

"Stop it, Shawn. I get the point."

"Are you sure?" Shawn asked coldly. "Because I can go on and on if you like. There was the hotdog debacle in St. Louis and the alligator incident in Miami. There was the day I spent in a jail cell in a tiny Podunk town in Arkansas for giving beer to a possum. Don't worry, the possum was fine. We were bunk mates and he never once asked me to drop the soap. He was considerate that way. He sends me a postcard every once and awhile. I could even tell you about the clown punching incident in Ch-Chicago."

Henry's head snapped up at his son's stutter. It was clear from the expression on Shawn's face that he hadn't meant to bring up the Windy city at all. It was also clear from the heart wrenching pain in his eyes that Chicago was the key to everything. Chicago was where his son had been broken, Chicago was the place Henry needed to look to find answers, Chicago was—

"Leave this alone, Dad," Shawn whispered hoarsely. "Leave it alone or I swear to God I'll leave and this time I won't be back. There won't be any postcards, won't be any phone calls. Leave this alone."

"Shawn," Henry started. "If something happened to you then maybe I could help, maybe I could—"

"Haven't you learned yet, Dad? There is nothing you could ever do for me that would mean anything. I don't want your help and if you were really honest with yourself you would realize that you don't want to help. Helping me feel better has never been your thing."

Henry knew his son was being hurtful on purpose, knew that Shawn was hoping Henry would drop the subject if he could make his rebuttal as vicious as possible. This knowledge didn't stop the hurt from coming though and it certainly didn't stop him from asking what had happened over the years. At first, he would only spring the question on him in private, but as time went by and Henry's desperation grew, he began prying at inappropriate moments in the hopes that the awkwardness would force Shawn to open up. Mostly it had done the exact opposite and had led to some truly heinous fights between them. Henry's worst moment was when he, Shawn, and Juliet had gone to dinner together to celebrate Shawn's birthday. To this day he didn't know why he chose that moment to ask, but he had and he'd reaped the consequences.

Dinner had been going surprisingly well. They had ordered a few beers and the food was cooked to perfection. Shawn was always easier to talk to when Juliet was around and usually managed to keep his biting remarks to a minimum. They had been talking about Juliet's terror of clowns as a child and the words had slipped out before he'd had a chance to think about them.

"You should ask Shawn about the time he supposedly punched a clown in Chicago," he said, only half jokingly. "I'm still waiting for the details on that one."

In an instant he realized the mistake he'd made. It was like a bucket of ice had been dumped over Shawn's head and the young man stared at his father in shock. There was no anger in his expression yet, but Henry knew that it was only a matter of time before the ice cold disbelief turned into a raging inferno of fury.

"What's this about a clown?" Juliet laughed uncomfortably, feeling the sudden tension but not knowing the cause of it.

"I-uh-I…I don't think that story is appropriate for the dinner table," Shawn said, swallowing hard. "Especially with Juliet's fear of clowns, Dad. How could you be so insensitive?"

"It's fine," Juliet told him soothingly, rubbing his arm. "You punched the clown, right? Justice served."

"No," Shawn said, standing up and dumping his napkin to the floor. "No, Jules, I will not let this stand. This blatant disregard to your feelings, this outrageous and frankly blasphemous attack on your courage. Tyranny shall not live while Shawn Spencer has anything to say about it."

"Shawn," Henry hissed. "Sit down. You're making a scene."

"You should have thought of that before you brought up clowns, Dad."

The rebuke was clear and had absolutely nothing to do with clowns or Juliet's subsequent fear of them. Henry had brought up Chicago. Not only that but he'd brought it up in front of Juliet, advertising Shawn's pain for his first real girlfriend since Abigail. This wasn't going to end well.

"Shawn," Juliet said, tugging on his hand. "I appreciate your flare for the dramatic, but maybe this isn't the place to give into your more thespian urges. People are staring."

"Let them stare," Shawn said boldly. "Let them look at the man who would dare mention clowns in this fine family establishment that serves such delightful pigs-in-a-blanket and offers happy hour every Tuesday and Thursday from 4 to 6. Let them look and shake their heads in shame at the father who would—"

"Shawn," Henry hissed. "I get the point."

"Do you?" Shawn asked quietly, but this time his voice was different. It was cold and haunted and Juliet looked up at him in alarm and confusion.

"Shawn," Juliet began.

"Do you?" he asked Henry again, ignoring his girlfriend. "Because I can keep going. Hell, I would love to keep going."

"You've made your point, kid. Now sit down and finish your burger."

"No," Shawn said, shaking his head. "No, I think we're done here. Suddenly I'm not so hungry."

"But Shawn," Juliet said, looking from Henry to her boyfriend in confusion. "They haven't even brought out desert yet and you know how much you love desert. Why don't we stay and—"

"No," Shawn hissed, clearly harsher than he meant to. He softened when he saw the hurt that flashed across Juliet's face. "I'm sorry, Jules. I really don't feel so well. Can we just go to your place? Maybe watch a movie? I've been hankering for a _Karate Kid _marathon ever since I saw the Tai-Chi people on the beach the other day. We can get some ice cream and I can tell you about my theory that Mr. Myagi is actually a Terminator."

"Shawn," Juliet said. "Your father worked really hard to make tonight special. I don't understand…its just clowns. No big deal."

"Please," Shawn whispered in a tone Henry had never heard him use before. It was a tired plea, a hopeless request and one that held the tone of a pain so deep and so cold that the dark chasms of the ocean would seem warm and pleasant in comparison. "Please, Jules."

"Alright," Juliet said softly, clearly at a loss for her boyfriend's sudden change in demeanor. "Alright, let me just grab my coat."

"Shawn," Henry started, rising from his chair. "I'm sorry, kid. I shouldn't have—"

"Don't," Shawn said coldly. "You and I have nothing to say to each other, Dad."

Juliet looked up at him in alarm. It was clear she knew that there was more to the sudden change of emotion than clowns, but it was also clear that she would not rise to Henry's defense. Nor would she push Shawn because she, unlike Henry, knew when to leave something alone and would never corner her child at his birthday dinner with his girlfriend. Henry wanted to punch himself but settled for taking a long swig of his beer, watching as his son wound between the tables, holding Juliet's hand tightly in his own, his shoulders rigid with unexpressed emotion. They hadn't spoken for over a week after that little display of fatherly failings and when they had there was no warmth to his son's greeting. No, the awkwardness of that night did not disappear until weeks later, but Henry learned a valuable lesson that day. Shawn hadn't been joking when he said that if Henry continued to push it would effectively end things between them. The weeks of awkward silences and tense conversations told him that and Henry vowed to leave the secrets and pain of Chicago buried in the dark prisons of Shawn's heart from that moment on.

Except Chicago didn't want to be buried. The Windy City would not be denied its fifteen minutes of fame and had reared its ugly head in the form of a serial killer that carved numbers into the heads of teenagers. A murderer that had taken something from Shawn that he could never regain, a disciple of the reaper that had killed his son as effectively as his other victims without touching him with blade, bullet, or hand.

Watching Shawn being interrogated by Lassiter was one of the hardest things he'd ever had to do. It took all of the strength he had not to rush in the tiny room and punch Carlton in the face for simply doing his job. To the elder detectives credit, once he'd learned of the pretty girl's death his entire demeanor had changed. Carlton was not known around the department for his bedside manner, but it was clear to Henry that the detective was questioning his kid with all the gentleness he could muster. It was disconcerting to watch him tiptoe around Shawn as if walking on eggshells and he knew it must be frustrating for him, but Henry appreciated the efforts all the same.

"Clowns," Juliet whispered, suddenly appearing beside him.

"What?"

"Clowns," Juliet repeated. "That night at the restaurant you mentioned clowns in Chicago and Shawn freaked. You weren't talking about clowns, were you?"

"No," Henry said softly. "We were talking about this…or at least what happened to him in Chicago. You didn't know him before he left, Juliet, but my son changed when he went away. I guess now we know why."

"He never told me, Henry. He never once mentioned her or…or anything. Doesn't that seem like something you would tell a person?"

"Shawn has always handled pain differently from other people," Henry sighed. "Hell, he handles just about everything differently. I've never been able to figure out the way his mind works. He's my own damn son and I have no idea which direction he might be going. He always arrives at his destination just as I recognize the signs. I'm always one step behind."

Juliet didn't say anything and Henry could feel her eyes on his face, but he stared straight ahead, watching as Shawn buried his head in his hands through the mirrored glass. He could see the grief etched upon his face as he told Lassiter of his meeting with Amy. It was a grief that no father ever wanted to see upon their child, a grief that no amount of Band-Aids or kisses could fix. It was Shawn's and Shawn's alone. Henry hated it.

"He doesn't look good," Juliet whispered after a minute, turning back to watch her boyfriend through the glass. "Maybe we should tell Carlton to give him a break. I don't think he's eaten anything since breakfast this morning."

"If you think that's for the best."

"You don't?"

"Juliet," Henry whispered, heart breaking at the expression on his son's face. "I don't know what to think anymore."


	5. Be My Yoko Ono

**Author's Note: **_Thanks so much for reading everyone! Here is the next chapter in the story. This one is another flash back, folks. They will be at random intervals through the story so that the present and the past are being explained at the same time. I hope this works for you all! Anyways, I hope you enjoy and please REVIEW! P.S.-this chapter is a little sappy and may be a bit PG-13…just a forewarning._

_**Six Years Earlier…Chicago, Illinois**_

Shawn had never been one to use terms like "picture perfect" or "living the dream". He had spent far too much time with Henry Spencer to believe that life was anything other than disappointing. Of course, that was before he'd fallen hopelessly in love. That was before he met Amy Coronado.

Being with Amy was like celebrating Christmas everyday of his life except there were never any disappointing presents, ugly knit sweaters, or fathers who made you deduce what he'd gotten you before he'd hand over the gift. She was constantly surprising him and for Shawn, who was rarely surprised by anyone or anything, was thrilled. Amy was an unpredictable force in Shawn's all too predictable world.

When he looked at her he didn't see her past, although she was always open about it if he asked. He didn't see her secrets, didn't see the hundred and one microscopic details his father had taught him to look for. Amy was immune to the power Shawn possessed but didn't entirely want. She was a mystery to him and he liked nothing more than to play Sherlock Holmes to her _Hound of the Baskervilles. _Every conversation they had was one he wanted to play over and over again in his mind. Every quirk he discovered was a treasure.

There were so many things Shawn loved about her that just trying to think of them all made his head spin. Her favorite snack was a large pickle and Shawn often suspected she would smell like dill, but she never did. She smelled like the strawberry shampoo she used. Sometimes she would buy peach or mango scented hair products just to watch him pout. He loved the fact that her favorite movie was _Lord of the Rings_, even though they had an intense discussion on what constituted as a single movie or a movie series. And the character she loved most? No pointy ears, no hairy feet, or giant beards, rightful kings or wizard hats. No, her favorite character was the sneaky bastard Gollum and she could imitate his voice with such perfection that Shawn didn't know whether to be impressed or terrified. Of course, considering he'd been sleeping on her couch when she'd snuck up behind him and whispered "my precious" into his ear for the first time it was probably a little of both.

On top of her dazzling beauty, winning smile, and incredible sense of adventure, Amy was wickedly smart. Despite her young age, she was one of the top reporters of the _Chicago Tribune_. Her rapier like wit and gift with words was something to behold. Shawn had seen her turn more than one hoity toity public official or snake tongued politician into quivering fools with a few strokes of her pen.

Amy had grown up in California, same as Shawn, but while he'd been living in the suburbs of Santa Barbara she had been trying to survive on the gang-infested streets of Compton. She had witnessed more than her fair share of violence and crime, had experienced enough loss and bitter disappointment to last her a lifetime. She dreamed of forcing people to look beyond their lives and see the harsh truth of existence that was so easily forgotten. She dreamed of seeing the world and painting a picture of words that allowed the world to see it with her. And so, defying all odds, she worked her fingers to the bone to make her dream come true. She was never afraid of her past. Never ashamed of who she had been, where she had come from, or what she'd done to survive. Shawn was mesmerized by her attitude towards life. She was the only person he'd ever seen who actually took the "life gives you lemons, make lemonade" mentality to heart. She was, for lack of a better term, picture perfect. And for some strange reason she loved him.

Shawn wasn't exactly arrogant, but he certainly wasn't the most humble man in the world. He'd gone through numerous relationships with the idea that whoever it was he was dating was lucky to be with him. With Amy it was the exact opposite. He counted every day he spent with her as something precious as if she were the last drop of water in a barren desert and could disappear at any moment. Every night when she kissed him goodbye from the doorway of her apartment, every moment when he held her in her arms, every time her face lit up when she saw him smile, was better than all the golden pineapples in the world. And every night, lying next to her, he wondered when she would wake up and their whirlwind relationship would end.

Except…it hadn't ended. A month went by. Three months. Six. She still laughed at his antics, still kissed him in a way that almost stole his breath away, and she was still fascinated by his peculiar talents. She loved going out to public places just so she could watch Shawn work his magic. The first time she had asked him Shawn had expected to feel the annoyance and anger he was so familiar with, but it never came. He didn't mind when she asked him. Perhaps it was because he knew that Amy never looked at his ability as something to be exploited or that she never expected more from him than what Shawn was willing to give. Perhaps it was simply because she wasn't Henry.

As the months continued to fly by Shawn found himself considering a path he'd never even glanced at before. Marriage, kids, the white picket fence. Everything. The Whole Nine Yards. The first time he realized how deeply in love he was with this woman was when they had gone shopping together to find a cocktail dress for a charity banquet she would be writing a column on that evening. They had found a dress that looked so incredible on her lithe frame that all Shawn wanted to do was take it off of her. He told her so and that was apparently enough to seal the deal. As they walked back to Amy's car they passed through the jewelry department and before Shawn had even realized what happened he found himself staring down at a simple silver wedding band with a small diamond in the center.

"What's going on in that head of yours, Pooh Bear?" Amy had asked, coming up to stand beside him.

"Why do you call me that?" Shawn asked absently.

"You know why."

"Refresh my memory."

"Cause your head is full of stuffin'," Amy laughed, kissing his head. "Why are you staring at that ring like it's the one ring to rule them all?"

"Do you like it?"

"What?" Amy asked shrugging her shopping bags to her other shoulder. "The one ring?"

"No," Shawn sighed. "This ring."

"Sure," Amy chirped. "Its pretty. Why do you ask?"

"Our one year anniversary is coming up in a month," Shawn answered, as if that explained everything.

"And?"

"And I want it to be special."

"Then I'm sure it will be."

Shawn frowned, staring down at the slender band with more concentration than he ever remembered giving anything in his life. Could he do it? Could he ask her to marry him? The answer was instantaneous. Yes, he could ask it. He wanted to ask it. He didn't think he'd ever wanted to ask anything more than he did in that moment. But, would she say yes? The thought of being rejected by Amy Coronado brought a bitter taste to his mouth and Shawn's frown deepened.

"Hey," Amy was saying. "Earth to Cyclops. You better put your battle visor back on or you're going to burn a hole right through that display case with your laser vision."

"Sorry," Shawn said with a small smile, shaking his head slightly to clear his thoughts. "You know I'm addicted to shiny things."

"Right," Amy cooed, ruffling his hair. "My boyfriend the bird man."

That should have been that. Crisis averted. No harm, no foul. But Shawn couldn't get the idea out of his head. He kept imagining himself slipping the ring on her finger, watching her face as she quirked her lips in the winning smile he loved so much. The thought surprised him. He'd never been much of a commitment guy, but this wouldn't be the first thing Amy had changed in him. And it was always for the better. Maybe his ability to commit was part of the change. Part of what made Amy perfect for him.

He knew he was going to make their year anniversary special. He just wasn't sure if they were ready to make the day THAT special. Besides, he knew next to nothing on proposing. How long were they supposed to be together before it was appropriate to ask? Or the opposite side of that…how long was TOO long? Should he be traditional and get down on one knee in a crowded, sophisticated restaurant so that everyone and their mother could witness his humiliation if she rejected him? Or should he come up with something more original and worthy of a woman being courted by Shawn Spencer? And if she said no? Where would that leave them?

In the end, Shawn decided to wait. He knew there was no chance he would change his mind on whether or not he wanted to marry her, but Amy could have a different idea. Besides, wasn't marriage something they should discuss? It seemed like that would be the responsible thing to do and he would much rather talk about any reservations Amy may have than face the consequences of going off half-cocked and ruining everything. He just wasn't sure how to bring the subject up. Having a staring contest with a diamond ring at a department store seemed too subtle. Not to mention a little creepy. But walking in the door with a cheery "Hi, honey! I'm home. Let's talk about marriage!" seemed over the top.

Shawn sighed, glancing up at the ridiculous cat clock Amy had talked him into buying at a garage sale in Highland Park. A quarter to seven. Amy would be walking through the door any second and Shawn still had to finish the final touches on their evening.

One year. It seemed strange to him that so much time had passed since he'd met Amy on the pier. A year with her was like a day to him, but the memories they had made spoke of their time together. Pictures, ticket stubs, souvenirs. Each of them held laughter and love. Each of them was a reminder of how Shawn felt about her.

They had talked about dinner out and dancing, but Amy opted for a night in. She was flying back from New York after interviewing some kid genius that had graduated from college at thirteen and planned on devoting his time and energy in finding a clean and renewable energy source. Unlike many of his girlfriends, or as Amy called them, his easy squeezes, Shawn was actually interested in what Amy did for a living. He loved listening to her talk about whatever column or article she was writing. He loved the passion in her voice and the determination in her eyes to tell it exactly like it was.

Shawn knew she would be tired after her flight from JFK to O'Hare, but he still wanted the night to be perfect. He looked around him to make sure everything was in place. All three _Lord of the Rings_ movies were stacked on their coffee table in chronological order. Frodo Baggins and his unlikely fellowship would be their entertainment for the evening and Shawn had hired a friend of Crazy Jimmy to help him transform their balcony into a landscape worthy of the Shire. It had made one hell of a mess, but Shawn couldn't deny that it looked damn good.

He ran through the checklist in his head to make sure he'd done everything perfectly. It was one of the things his gift actually came in handy for. He could close his eyes and visualize exactly where every item was. The giant Gollum sock-puppet he'd made for her was sitting in the corner of the couch, the table on the balcony was decorated to perfection and the expensive bottle of wine he'd bought for the occasion was chilling in the ice bucket, the speakers he'd set out to serenade them with a playlist he'd created for the evening was plugged in to the tiny outlet behind the portable George Foreman grill, the main course was sitting in the oven and the salad, freshly tossed, was covered in the fridge, Amy's favorite blanket was folded neatly on the armchair, the Aragorn and Arwen capes he'd had made by a thirty something nerd in his mother's basement was draped across the balcony railing, and the cat—

Shawn hissed in a breath. The damn cat. He had to let the little devil out of the back room before Amy got home or she'd skin him alive. For reasons Shawn did not understand Amy had picked the ugliest, meanest, most spiteful cat in the animal shelter, but she loved the feline and it adored the very ground Amy walked on. He saw himself as the only man in Amy Coronado's life. Which meant he hated Shawn. With a vengeance.

Shawn didn't normally put Sampson in the back room, but lately the cat had decided that peeing on his shoes was a proper punishment for encroaching on the feline's perceived territory. Perhaps if Shawn had more shoes this wouldn't have been a big deal, but all he had was a pair of sneakers, a pair of snow boots, and a horrific pair of bright yellow cowboy boots with spurs that Amy and he had bought in a fit of drunken stupidity.

"Sampson," Shawn hissed, opening the back room door and watching the darkness for any sign of movement. "Sampson, where are you? Come on out."

Sampson yowled at him from underneath the bed and shot out like a rocket, tail held high and hair on end like he'd stuck his paw in the light socket. Shawn jumped backwards as the monster cat sunk its claws in his pant leg and tried to climb his way to Shawn's face using his calf and thigh as leverage.

"Ach," Shawn yelled, tripping over his own feet and hitting the wall in a heap. "Stupid, mangy, good for nothing—"

"I hope you aren't talking about me," Amy called from the front hallway.

Shawn heard her drop her bags to the floor and the unmistakable tinkle of Sampson's cat collar as he knocked his head against her legs.

"Hey, Sampson. Hey pretty kitty. Mommy missed you."

Shawn rolled his eyes and got to his feet. His leg burned slightly where Sampson's claws had gouged him, but the cat was out and Amy would never know he'd been shut in the room for the better part of the weekend.

"You always greet the cat first," Shawn grumbled with a smile. "Where's my hello?"

"He gets a chin rub," Amy said, wrapping her arms around him then kissing the breath right out of his lungs. "You get that. You decide who gets the better deal."

"Happy Anniversary," he whispered to her. "I'm glad your home."

"I'm glad to be home. Happy Anniversary, Pooh Bear."

"Ready to see your surprise?"

"Shawn, please tell me you didn't mess with Play-Doh."

"It was one time, Amy."

"Shawn, I had to try and keep a straight face as a fireman explained to me that my boyfriend started a fire by using the microwave as a kiln."

"I promise no Play-Doh was harmed in the making of this evening," Shawn said, raising a hand in scout's honor.

"What do you think Sampson?" Amy asked, staring down at the cat's squashed face. "Should we trust him?" Sampson yowled.

"He hurts me when he says things like that," Shawn said.

"He's just jealous," she whispered. "He wishes he had an amazing boyfriend like I do."

"Hmmm," Shawn murmured. "Don't overestimate me. You haven't even tasted dinner yet."

"You made me dinner?" Amy said, pulling her head back to look at him appraisingly. "Should I be worried?"

"Nobody has keeled over yet," Shawn said with a shrug. "That's promising, right?"

"I'm a glutton for adventure, Mr. Spencer. Lead the way."

"Rivendale awaits you," Shawn called out, bowing low and almost falling over when Sampson swiped his paw at him. "And the toilet awaits the feline."

Amy laughed and took his hand, pulling him into the living room where Shawn had set up the evening events. Her mouth opened up in a little 'o' of delight and she looked around her in wonder.

"Shawn," she said. "Its amazing. Its like…like I'm in the Shire."

"I hoped you would like it," Shawn whispered.

"Like it? I love it! This is so cute!"

"Cute?" Shawn asked with a small frown. He wasn't sure cute was what he wanted.

"Yes," Amy cried. "Cute! Look! You even made me a Gollum sock puppet!"

"Cute," Shawn repeated, annoyed.

"What?"

"You think it's cute."

"Yes," Amy said, turning her head to frown at him in confusion. "What's wrong with that?"

"I wasn't going for cute, Corona."

"Shawn," Amy said, narrowing her eyes. "I know you think its funny, but a sure way to make sure that a woman never EVER has sex with you is giving her a nickname that doubles as a beer."

"What?" Shawn yelped. "A beer? No, its from the song!"

"What song?"

"You know…da da duh da da…My Corona!"

"It's my Sharona, Shawn."

"I've heard it both ways."

"Why do I even bother arguing with you?" Amy snapped, rolling her eyes.

"You started it," Shawn told her. He wasn't sure how they had ended up fighting. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?

"How the hell did I start this?" Amy growled.

"You called me cute!"

"And that's a problem?"

"Cute is for Teddy Bears with fluffy paws," Shawn grumbled. "Cute is for bunnies and kittens not named Sampson. Cute is for children."

"Then it fits you perfectly."

"Ouch," Shawn winced. "That was below the belt, Amy."

"I'm sorry," Amy said, throwing her hands up. "I'm sorry I called you cute, Shawn. What should I have said? I didn't really think sexy applied to _Lord of the Rings_. So…what? What should I have called you?"

"Romantic," Shawn said lamely.

"What?"

"I was hoping for romantic."

"Oh, Shawn," Amy relented. "This is romantic. I mean, as romantic as Mordor and Ring Wraiths can be."

"I was going for Arwen and Aragorn."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"How was I supposed to know that?"

"I had capes," Shawn told her. "Cloaks, I mean."

"You have cloaks?" Amy smiled.

"Yeah. With the little leaves on them and everything."

"Can I see them?"

Shawn motioned for her to follow him out on the balcony, but when he got there the cloaks were gone. He stared at the spot they had been in dumbfounded amazement.

"They were just here," he croaked. "Where the hell did they go?"

"Maybe you only thought you bought regular cloaks," Amy grinned. "Maybe you accidentally bought Invisibility Cloaks instead. It's an easy mistake to make. I just hope you kept your receipt."

"This isn't funny, Amy."

"I'm not laughing."

"You are poking fun. It's the same thing."

"Shawn," Amy sighed. "I'm playing with you. It's adorable."

"Adorable is the same thing as cute," Shawn pouted.

"Fine! Romantic! Jesus Shawn."

"Damn right I'm romantic. I'm a regular Casanova."

"Oh, Shawn," Amy snorted.

"What?"

"I love you, but Casanova? Really?"

"Yes!"

"Shawn…baby…you are funny and smart and sweet and incredibly original—"

"And sexy?"

"That to."

"But?"

"But to get to all of that there are a lot of childish layers you've got to go through first."

"Layers?"

"Yes," Amy said. "Layers. Like an onion."

"Are you calling me _Shrek_?" Shawn frowned, moving over to stand by the balcony railing.

"What?"

"You know," Shawn said with a shrug. "Layers…onions…have you never seen _Shrek_?"

"No."

Shawn turned to stare at her incredulously. "You should wear a sign that says 'lives under rock'."

"You aren't helping your case, Shawn."

"Onions," Shawn grimaced. "Why can't I be like a cake? Or a parfait? Or an ice cream sundae?"

"Does an ice cream sundae have layers?"

"Yes," Shawn said. "You start with your ice cream. Three scoops."

"You eat three scoops?"

"I really like ice cream."

"I can tell."

"I am trying to explain this," Shawn told her. "So you have your three scoops of ice cream…"

"What flavors are they?"

"What does that matter?"

"It doesn't. I'm just curious."

"Chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry," Shawn replied impatiently. "Then you have your caramel sauce."

"I don't like caramel," Amy told him stubbornly.

"Well, I do and this is my metaphorical sundae so it's going to have caramel."

"That sounds like ice cream fascism."

"What?"

"You know, forcing others to believe in your ice cream ideals against their will."

"Its ice cream, Amy."

"I know. I'm just pointing it out. Please continue."

"So," Shawn sighed. "Then you have your chocolate sauce. Then your whip cream. Then your nuts."

"Your what?"

"Nuts."

"Huh?"

"Nuts," Shawn snapped. "Did you stand too close to the plane engine at the airport and blow out your ears?"

"No," Amy said with a wicked grin. "I just like making you say nuts."

"You're ridiculous," Shawn told her with an amused shake of his head. This was how it was with Amy Coronado. Their fights always turned into something like this and Shawn could never really remember what they had even started fighting about.

"Says the man trying to justify an ice cream sundae with layers," Amy smirked.

"It does have layers," Shawn exclaimed. "Did I not just explain this?"

"You did," Amy said slowly, tapping her upper lip. "But, I have a hypothetical situation to pose to you about your…what should we call it…your Sundae Hypothesis."

"Really? The Sundae Hypothesis? That is the best you can come up with, Miss Paid to Write?"

"You have something better?"

"No," Shawn admitted.

"Then shhh," Amy told him. "Now, just for shits and giggles, lets say that somebody wanted to eat this sundae. Rare, I know, but plausible."

"Your point?"

"My point is that all they have to do to ruin your layer theory is stick their spoon in and mix it around a bit. Voila! No more layers."

"Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack," Amy said with small nod. "And, since we're on the subject, here's another wrench to throw in the Sundae Hypothesis. You are sitting at your table, enjoying your Sundae's creamy goodness and—"

"It's what?"

"Creamy goodness."

"Huh?"

"Shawn," Amy said sternly. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You're trying to get me to say creamy goodness one more time."

"Say what again?" Shawn grinned.

"Shawn," Amy said, trying not to laugh. "I am a firm believer that violence is, in fact, the answer."

"Psssshhh," Shawn scoffed, waving her off with a hand. "You ain't got no skills. I'd throw you over my shoulder like a Continental Soldier so fast you wouldn't know what hit you."

"Oh," Amy said, raising an eyebrow. "You think?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Well," Amy whispered, her lips quirking up into a seductive smile. "Come on then, onion boy. Show me what you've got."

They never did get around to watching _Lord of the Rings_ that night, but Shawn didn't mind in the slightest. He was more than happy to spend their evening recreationally and he was pretty sure Amy was to. Afterward, with Amy snuggled up against his chest, Shawn stared at the ceiling for a long time, basking in the feeling of complete contentment she brought him.

"Shawn," Amy said hesitantly. "I have something I wanted to ask you."

"Ask away," Shawn said absently.

"You know that murderer they've been trying to catch? The one who strangles his victims then carves the number in their skin?"

"Babe," Shawn said with a frown. He didn't want to think about murderers. His dad thought about murderers. "You're ruining my post coital glow."

There was a long silence and then, "I'm fairly certain that is the creepiest thing a man has said to me after sex."

"Hmmm," Shawn sighed, closing his eyes. "Because bringing up a serial killer is such great pillow talk."

"Shawn," Amy said quietly. "This is serious."

There was something in her voice that gave him pause. Excitement. And terror. Shawn opened his eyes and sat up.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"You know that expose I wrote for _Newsweek _when we first started dating?" Amy asked him, playing with his fingers. "The one about gang violence?"

"Yeah," Shawn said slowly. "I remember you had to get pretty up close and personal with some of the cases."

"How did you feel about that?" Amy asked him, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I remember not liking it much," Shawn told her. "Amy, what is this all about?"

"_Newsweek_ has asked me to write another feature article, Shawn. It would mean big things for my career."

"Ok. What's it about?" Shawn asked, even though he already knew.

"That's the thing," Amy said. "Its about this guy, Shawn. The sick bastard that's killing people. They want me to figure out what makes this guy tick…what makes anybody like that tick."

"Oh," Shawn said, swallowing hard. "Umm…that's great, I guess."

"Shawn," Amy said softly. "I'm asking you if it's okay."

"If what's okay?"

"Me taking the job," Amy sighed, exasperated.

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because that's what couples do," Amy whispered. "Because that's what people who love each other do. They talk about major life decisions like this. Jobs, marriage, all of that sort of—"

"Marriage?" Shawn asked, lifting his head up. "You…you want to talk about marriage?"

"I didn't mean right this second," Amy said quickly.

"Right," Shawn coughed, awkwardly. "Of course, I didn't meant that…I mean I wouldn't want to…not that I wouldn't want to marry you because…or that I would if you don't want to…" Stop. Stop, Shawn. Stop opening your mouth. This had never happened to him before. He was a master at verbal sparring and now he sound like Porky the Pig. "I just mean that if you want to talk about it then—"

Amy pressed her lips to his silencing him more effectively than a piece of duct tape. When she finally pulled back from him he couldn't think of anything else to say, but that had probably been her plan all along.

"Shawn," she told him. "I love you and one day, very soon, you and I are going to have a long discussion about our future. Just not today. Today I'm asking you about a job because what you think matters to me. This isn't just my life, anymore. Its yours to."

"Is it important to you?" Shawn asked her quietly.

"I'm not going to lie to you, Shawn. I jumped at the chance to write this piece, but I told Makowski at _Newsweek _that I had to talk it over with you."

"Would you be safe?"

"As safe as I would be writing any other high profile piece," Amy said.

Shawn didn't believe that for a second, but he doubted Amy believed it either. He'd seen some of the case files his father had brought home with him when he was a kid and the thought of anything happening to Amy made him sick to his stomach. He didn't want her anywhere near this guy, didn't want her anywhere near any of his crime scenes either. It would draw too much attention to her and if anything happened to Amy, anybody hurt her…well, Shawn didn't want to know what he would become without her.

"Shawn," Amy whispered in his ear. "I'm a big girl, you know. I can handle myself."

"I know you think you can, Amy. But…this guy…I just…I get a bad feeling about this."

"A bad feeling?" Amy smiled. "Like a psychic vibe?"

"That," Shawn allowed. "Or maybe its just good old common sense finally knocking on my door."

"Common sense is my job," Amy laughed. "Your job is to be silly and free of worry, Shawn."

"That's not true. I worry about you."

"I know, but I can do this. I've got to do this."

"It sounds like you already made up your mind," Shawn said.

"I've made up MY mind," Amy said. "But I haven't made up yours. If you don't want me to do this, Shawn, then tell me. I'll turn down the job. I'll be disappointed, but I'll turn it down because I love you."

Shawn looked at her for a long time. He wanted nothing more than to please her, nothing more than to see her happy. But, this guy, this creep who took people off the streets and killed them with his bare hands, terrified him. He didn't know what it was about the man that sent Shawn's heart beating a panicked rhythm against his chest, but it was there and it was big and it was real. But, her smile. He didn't want her to be disappointed. Didn't want to be the cause of her unhappiness. So, against his better judgment, against every instinct he had, he nodded.

"You mean it?" Amy asked, studying his face closely.

"Yeah," Shawn said softly. "Take the job, babe."

"Thank you," she whispered, kissing him again. She smiled at him before rolling out of the bed and over to her carry on bag she'd brought with her to New York. "I got you something…for our anniversary."

"Amy," he said. "You didn't have to—"

"Hush," she told him excitedly. "Its for both of us. Hold out your hands and close your eyes."

Shawn grinned and did as he was told. He felt something small and cool drop into his hand. A key. It had to be a key. He opened his eyes and held the tiny piece of metal up.

"What's this to?" Shawn asked.

"Its to a house," Amy told him shyly. "Just a small place over in Highland Park. It's a bit of a fixer upper, but I figured that together you and I can make it into a home. Our home."

"Amy," Shawn breathed, unsure of what to say. "Its…"

"Of course," Amy said suddenly. "If you think its too soon or—"

"No," Shawn said quickly. "This is perfect. I—thank you. And, you know, I got you something to."

"Another invisibility cloak?"

"No," Shawn laughed, pulling a box from his bedside table drawer and handing it to her. "Better."

Amy opened the box and Shawn closed his eyes. God, he hoped he wasn't about to make a fool of himself. He wasn't a sappy man, but—

"Shawn," Amy breathed and Shawn opened his eyes. "Shawn, its beautiful."

Amy held the locket he'd given her in between her fingers and stared down at the picture of the two of them on the ferris wheel at the county fair. There were tears in her eyes and Shawn gave himself a pat on the back for a job well done.

"It was my grandmother's," he told her softly. "My grandfather gave it to her before he went off to war so she could look at his face everyday and never forget the man she married. She gave it to me before she died and told me that I should give it to the girl I planned to marry. That's you, Corona."

"Shawn," Amy said, wiping tears from her eyes before slapping him. "You sure know how to ruin a moment."

"My specialty," he teased.

"I love you," she told him. "Forever and always."

"That's a mighty big statement," Shawn told her.

"It isn't if its true," she whispered.

"Then I love you to," Shawn said, kissing her hair. "Forever and always."

Amy put the locket around her neck then snuggled up against him once more. She was on the verge of sleep, but she turned to him one last time, her eyes unreadable in the dim light of the their bedside lamp.

"Promise you won't leave me," she told him. "Promise you won't go off to war or anything else."

"I promise," Shawn whispered. "Do you promise to be safe on this job?"

"Don't worry," she told him with a sleepy smile. "I'll be fine. Trust me."

Shawn did trust her. It was everyone else that was the problem.


	6. One Man Wrecking Machine

**Author's Note: **_A bit of a shorter chapter, I know. I hope you enjoy it though. Please let me know what you think and REVIEW!_

Amy Coronado had loved books. She had them stacked about her room like tiny towers and Shawn used to imagine stomping through them like Godzilla. Only he would be Shawnzilla and the sound of his name would strike terror in the hearts of authors everywhere. She used to tell him that the only way she would ever feel at home would be if she were surrounded by words and the crisp smell of printed paper. Sometimes she would read to him and Shawn was confident that the only thing that kept him interested was the passion in her voice, the excitement and pleasure that flowed from her lips as she bared a part of her soul to him.

Her favorite book wasn't what Shawn had expected. She told him sheepishly, almost reluctantly, and she made him promise not to laugh. She had pulled it from her nightstand like a priest might a bible. Shawn had studied the front cover for a long moment and had to bite down hard on the smile he'd felt creeping up his lips. The book was thin, not even twenty pages, and the cover was colorfully illustrated with the words _Goodnight Moon_ scrawled across the top.

"Isn't this a children's story?" he'd asked, trying to make his tone neutral.

"Yes," Amy had admitted. "But, its…there is something so beautifully simple in the words, Shawn. Its hard to explain but when I read this book I feel…I don't know…I feel like…"She'd frowned and pulled the book tight against her chest. "When I was little my teacher gave me a copy of this book. She told me to read it when times were hard and…somehow it helped. When my dad came home drunk at night I would hide in this tiny space we had beneath our kitchen sink. I had a stuffed rabbit named Jinxie and I would take him in there with me and I would read to him. I would read _Goodnight Moon _to him like it was a prayer, Shawn. I would pretend I was there with the little red balloon and the little toy house and for awhile…for awhile I felt safe." She'd looked away from him and swallowed nervously. "I know it sounds silly. I know it does, but…but its important to me."

"Would you read it?" he'd asked her, any traces of amusement gone.

"Out loud?"

"Yeah. Please?"

And she had read it. She had chosen to share something deeply personal with him and his heart had nearly burst with the emotion in her voice. It became a part of them, a part of what they shared together. Sometimes he would buy a red balloon and place it by her bedside. He toyed with the idea of putting Sampson in mittens, but the mangy feline had looked over at him as if he'd sensed the directions of Shawn's thoughts and yowled menacingly. Sometimes they had created their own version of _Goodnight Moon_ as they sat snuggled together on the couch or lying in bed on a lazy Saturday night. Her version was always eloquent and rhymed perfectly. Shawn's was usually silly and made her laugh and the sound of her ringing laughter was what brought him the greatest joy. They had loved _Goodnight Moon_.

Now Shawn hated it. He hated the two kittens in mittens, the little house, the stupid fucking mouse, and the old lady that said hush. He hated the brush, hated the mush, hated the clocks and the socks, the bears and the chairs. He hated goodnight noises everywhere. He hated all of it, but sometimes when his mood was dark and his mind wandered he would still come up with his own version. Only it wasn't silly and it never made anyone laugh.

He did it now looking around the interrogation room with dull eyes. Goodnight night brick. Goodnight detective he often called dick. Goodnight chair. Goodnight photo of a girl with blood in her hair. Goodnight doom, goodnight gloom. Goodnight—

"Spencer," Lassiter barked. "Did you hear what I said?"

"No," Shawn told him slowly staring at the photos on the metal table.

"I asked if you were hungry," Lassiter repeated. "I was going to get you some lunch. My treat."

"That's sweet," Shawn snorted bitterly. "Who knew it would take a personal fucking tragedy for Carlton Lassiter to actually treat me like a human being? I should have pulled this card years ago."

"Spencer," Lassiter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Its just lunch. There's no reason to bite my damn head off."

"Keep your lunch," Shawn told him coldly. "I wouldn't eat it anyways."

Lassiter opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he closed it again and appraised Shawn awkwardly from across the table. Shawn quickly looked away from the detective's penetrating gaze and studied the crime scene photos intensely. He would stare at them until he'd found something. Until he found the ONE clue that would lead him to the sick son of a bitch that had taken everything from him. And when he found him? Shawn was still debating on whether he would let the police arrest him or if he would—

Lassiter snatched the photos out from under his nose and put them neatly inside a file folder before placing the file safely beneath his arm. Shawn stared up at him incredulously.

"What are you doing?" Shawn snapped. "I need those, Lassie. I need to see—"

"See what?" Carlton asked him quietly. "Spencer, you're psychic, right? What do you need the photos for?"

"Are you really going to do this?" Shawn asked very softly, hands clenching into fists. "Now?"

"Depends," Lassiter shrugged.

"On?"

"You," Lassiter told him. "I'm taking the photos with me, Spencer. You're not technically on this case anymore and—"

Lassiter stopped at the look on Shawn's face. If his expression reflected even a small percentage of the fury surging through him he understood why. His hands were shaking and his eyes darted around the room looking for the perfect weapon to smash the stupid detective's skull in for even daring to suggest he be taken off the case. This was HIS case.

"Spencer," Lassiter said gently. "Can't you see how obsessed you are? You're too close to this."

"You can't stop me from being involved," Shawn told him harshly.

"I know," Lassiter sighed. "But, I can stop you from dragging everyone you care about down with you. Everyone I care about." He took the file folder from beneath his arm and glanced distastefully at its contents. "I want to help you, Shawn. But, you have to work with me on this. You can have the photos back."

"And in exchange?" Shawn asked sullenly.

"You come with me and you eat. Then you go home and try and get some sleep. Try and work through this block that you are—"

"I don't have time for that, Lassie! He's out there and he—"

"Do you care about Juliet at all?"

"What?"

"Juliet, your girlfriend? My partner? Ringing any bells?"

"Fuck you, Lassie."

"Dammit, Spencer! I'm trying to help you."

"Then give me the photos!"

"I already told you my conditions," Lassiter told him. "If you don't work with me then I am telling the chief to take you off this case…to put you in protective custody until we can track this guy down."

"You wouldn't do that," Shawn said softly.

"You know I would," Lassiter said. "I have a duty to protect my fellow officers and the civilians of this city. And you are one screw away from a full-scale breakdown, Spencer. You aren't thinking clearly, you aren't making rational decisions. You're angry and I get that, but right now anger is going to get people killed. Going to get you killed. Or Juliet. So, for Christ's sake, Spencer…let me help you."

Shawn stared at Lassiter a long time. He was right, of course. He had already thought of Juliet getting caught up in the sadistic game the murderer liked to play with him. The way Amy had. The thought sent terror crashing through him and it was all he could do to not tear the photos out of Lassiter's grasp. It didn't matter that Lassiter had a gun, didn't matter that the man was nearly a foot taller than him and could easily take him down, didn't matter that Shawn would be hurting someone he had once called friend. Nothing mattered but the hunt. The case. Saving the second woman he'd allowed himself to truly fall for simply because he couldn't save the first.

Except that was the point, wasn't it? Shawn had tried to take the sick freak on alone and it had gotten Amy killed. He needed help and Carlton Lassiter, methodical and level headed, could get the job done. Part of him wanted to ask, to beg, Carlton to help him make sense of the madness in his head, but to do that he would have to trust the detective in a way he wasn't sure he could. It meant telling him the truth…about everything. There was no way he could divulge the events that took place all those years ago without outing himself in the process. Without ruining everything he'd fought so hard to create. Goodbye Shawn the psychic. Hello Shawn the fake, the charlatan, the liar.

And where would that leave him? If he told Lassie that he'd been lying to them all for the past seven years there would be no way the detective could see past that. He would tell the chief who would pull him away from the one job he'd ever loved. And that was only if she didn't throw him in jail. More importantly, Juliet would find out and she would hate him. He would lose her, not in body, but in mind and spirit. He would lose the one person he'd fought so hard against for so many years that finally giving in was like learning to breathe again.

Shawn glanced over at the two-way mirror where he knew Juliet would be watching him. There was someone unfamiliar staring back at him and it took Shawn a moment to realize that the disheveled figure in the glass was himself. He was a mess. Clammy and pale, with glassy eyes and matted hair. He looked like a heroin addict. It wasn't long before he couldn't look at himself anymore. He blinked once and turned his face back to Lassie.

"Why are you doing this?" Shawn asked quietly. "Why are you trying to help me, Lassifrass?"

"Because your father was a good cop," Lassiter said. "Because Juliet is my partner and she loves you. And because you would do the same thing for me, Spencer."

"Just lunch?" Shawn asked. "Then I get the photos?"

"Lunch and sleep," Lassiter said firmly.

"I can't sleep, Lassiter. I can't sleep without seeing…without dreaming…" His voice caught and he had to stop. Lassiter merely nodded.

"One step at a time, Spencer. First lunch. We can figure the rest out from there."

Shawn nodded. He'd made a decision then. He would tell Lassiter everything because the surly detective was the only thing that could help him.

"Good," Carlton grunted. "I'll get O'Hara and we'll—"

"No," Shawn said loudly. "Just us, Lassie. Nobody else."

"Are you sure?" Lassie asked, glancing uncertainly at the two-way mirror and frowning.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Spencer," Lassiter ventured. "You're going to have to face her eventually, you know. This isn't going to go away."

"Yeah," Shawn whispered with a forlorn glance at the mirror. "I know."

A half hour and an awkward car ride later Shawn found himself watching the waves break upon the shore from his spot on the patio. They'd chosen _Longboards Beach Bar and Grill _for lunch because, according to Lassiter, they had the best Thresher shark sandwich on the West Coast. Shawn wasn't sure which disturbed him more: the fact that a Thresher shark sandwich even _existed_ or the fact that Lassiter actually wanted to _eat _it. He felt that anyone that consumed something that might have bitten off chunks of human flesh was begging to be a victim of what Shawn dubbed 'surprise cannibalism.' He didn't have the heart to mention his reservations to Lassie especially after he made a mewling sound of delight after his first bite.

Shawn had his order taken by a perky blonde waiter, resplendent in the orange sheen of a fake tan. She'd practically bounced up to them with her white teeth gleaming and before she spoke Shawn couldn't help but wonder if she sounded like Minnie Mouse. She didn't. He hoped that she wouldn't bring back the headache that had been gnawing away at his skull. She did.

In the end, their food had been delivered and Shawn managed to scarf down a burger with buffalo sauce and potato chips on it. Normally, such a concoction would have delighted him, but now it took all he had not to throw it all back up. After he'd eaten, he stared at his plate, idly making shapes with his fries, and waited for Lassiter to finish up his meal. The buffalo sauce was sitting heavy on his stomach and the day felt far too warm even though the sky above them was overcast. He just wanted to get this over with. He just wanted a drink. Something to numb the pain…if only for a little while.

When Lassiter excused himself to use the restroom Shawn called the waitress over and ordered five dirty martinis and one cocktail called the 'Blue Moondoggie.' The martinis would get him right to the edge of a drunken stupor and the ridiculousness of the cocktail's name alone could push him over the top and down into the sweet abyss. Of course, Lassiter had to ruin it all.

"Spencer," he snapped, taking his seat just as Shawn raised his third martini glass to his lips. "What the hell do you think your doing?"

"I think the official term is 'drowning the pain', Lassie." He knocked the third martini back in one fluid motion and had barely set the glass down before he was reaching for the fourth.

"Stop it," Lassiter growled, pushing Shawn's hand away.

"Don't tell me what to do, Detective. You're not my father."

"No, I'm not. Thank God." Shawn rolled his eyes and reached for the blue cocktail. "Spencer, I swear if you touch that drink I will handcuff you to the table."

"I need this," Shawn begged. "Please, Lassie…I—"

"The hell you do," Lassiter told him gruffly. "The last thing you need is copious amounts of alcohol. You're a train wreck as it is, Spencer."

Shawn bit his lip hard to keep from screaming and turned his eyes back on the soothing California surf. He could feel his hands shaking beneath the table and his stomach tightened uncomfortably. He began to wonder if the buffalo burger with potato chips was such a good idea. The conversation he was about to have would be difficult enough without feeling the urge to barf everywhere.

"Lassie," Shawn finally said, refusing to look at the older detective. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Lassiter grunted.

"About this case. About what I am. Or…more importantly…what I'm not."

"What you're not? What are you talking about Spencer?"

"I should have never let her get involved," Shawn said hoarsely. "I knew then that I was making a mistake, but I wanted her to be happy, Lassie. I wanted her to be happy so badly that I ignored every instinct I had. And then, he somehow figured out what I could do, and…and I failed her."

"What you could do? You mean…your psychic abilities?"

"Well," Shawn said bitterly. "There's the ironic thing, Lassie. He thought I was psychic. He thought that I could see the future."

"Spencer," Lassiter said very softly. "What are you trying to say to me right now?"

"He believed that I was a psychic, Lassie! Don't you get it? He never cared about her. About Amy. She was just a means to an end. That was the whole point of his game. To prove that I had psychic abilities. That I was in tune to the other side."

"Shawn," Lassiter began, staring at him strangely. "Maybe you should calm down. You don't look—"

"But I wasn't," Shawn exploded, drawing awkward glances from other patrons. "I wasn't, Lassie! I never have been. I have never had a psychic vision in my life. I've never communicated with the dead. Ever. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Lassiter?"

"Yes," Lassiter said calmly.

"Well," Shawn panted. "Aren't you going to say something?"

"Spencer," Lassiter sighed. "I've been waiting for you to admit that you're a fake since you first walked into my police department. You fooled a lot of people, but you didn't actually think I ever believed your bullshit, did you? I already knew you were a scam, Shawn." He shrugged. "But, regardless of your methods, you get results. For now that is all that matters to me."

"I don't understand," Shawn whispered, collapsing in his wicker chair. "I thought you would be furious, Lassie. I thought you would—"

"Drag you to the chief?" Lassie asked with a small smile. "Get you thrown in jail?"

"Yeah," Shawn said softly. "Something like that."

"Most of the time you bug the hell out of me, Spencer. You're unorthodox, untidy, chaotic, immature, and annoying as hell. But, sometimes…sometimes there are moments, _brief_ moments, that I actually like you." He shrugged. "If I had been able to prove that you were a fake three or four years ago I would have liked nothing better than to drag you down, but I don't want that any more."

"What do you want?" Shawn whispered.

"I want you to be honest with me," Lassiter told him. "From now on, no more psychic visions. No more putting your finger to your head or having imaginary conversations with animals and figurines. And you need to tell Juliet."

"I can't," Shawn blanched. "Lassie, I can't do that. She would hate me. I—"

"Tell her," Lassiter growled. "Or I will, Spencer. You can't have a relationship that is founded on lies. Believe me…I know."

"After I catch him," Shawn begged. "After this son of a bitch is dead, I swear I will tell her."

"Fine," Lassiter sighed. His eyes suddenly narrowed. "You said dead, Spencer."

"What?"

"You said after this son of a bitch is dead, Shawn. You were never going to allow him to make it into police custody, were you?"

"Slip of the tongue," Shawn began.

"Don't start with that," Lassiter snapped. "This is the kind of stuff I was talking about! The kind of stuff that will get you killed. Playing vigilante hasn't solved anything, Shawn."

"Why should he get the chance to live?" Shawn yelled, pushing himself up from the table. "Why should he be given a fair trial when he murdered and killed—" Shawn stopped and swallowed, attempting to breathe past the painful lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. It felt like his throat was closing up, like his airways had narrowed and been crushed inwards.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The tightening of his belly became a fire, licking red hot flames against his insides. His head was swimming and though he felt uncomfortably cold he was all but dripping with sweat. The agony in his gut intensified into harsh, stabbing pains and Shawn felt himself fall against the table, dragging the tablecloth, the remaining martinis, and the dishes to the ground.

"Spencer," Carlton was yelling at him. "Spencer, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Shawn tried to answer, but his tongue wouldn't work. He collapsed backwards and fell onto the wooden boards of the patio. He couldn't breathe. He could hear himself attempting to draw in wheezing gulps of air and was both sickened and mesmerized by the site of his own spit dripping onto the patio, thicker than any spit had the right to be.

"Somebody call an ambulance," Lassiter shouted before getting to his knees beside Shawn. "Hey, Spencer, talk to me. What's happening?"

He opened his mouth and tried to speak the words, but all that came out was a harsh groan of mutilated consonants and vowels. His whole body tingled, like thousands of bugs were crawling all over his skin. The pain in his gut was reaching a blinding crescendo and Shawn grabbed hold of Lassiter's shirt so that he could heave himself to his side in order to throw up. The buffalo burger came back up his throat and peppered the deck. There was blood there, harsh and red. His blood. What the hell was happening to him?

It was then that he saw it. A glass vial taped to the underside of their table and Shawn knew instantly that he'd been poisoned. Poisoned by the very son of a bitch he was trying to hunt down. The message would have been clear even if it hadn't been for the numbers carved into the wood. 1-0. The game was beginning and Shawn had lost the first round.

He wouldn't die. He knew this instinctively. The killer wouldn't want him out of the game so quickly because without Shawn there would be nobody to play with. The glass vial must have contained and antidote of some kind, but as comforting as that thought was it did little to help ease the pain. He reached out a trembling hand and tried to rip the vial off the table, but his fingers wouldn't work. His muscles shook and cramped and he felt himself convulsing at Lassiter tried to hold him still.

"Shit," he heard Lassiter hiss. "Shit, shit, shit. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Shawn grabbed for the vial again, but this time Lassiter's eyes followed the direction of his hands. He yanked the vial off the side of the table and ripped open the tiny note that was attached. His face paled as his eyes scanned the page and Shawn tried to ask him what was wrong, but his muscles cramped so badly that his back arched off the floor and a choked scream escaped his lips.

"Lassie," Shawn ground out. "Lass…ie, help…help me."

"Keep breathing," Lassiter told him. "Just keep breathing, Spencer. Do you hear me? Help is on the way."

Shawn tried to do what Lassiter told him. He was trying so hard, but with every spasm of his muscles and every labored beat of his heart he knew he was losing the fight to stay conscious. It was a fight just to keep his eyes open and he was losing.

Suddenly, he was falling. Falling through clouds and past rainbows. He could feel himself convulsing uncontrollably against Lassiter's chest, could hear the head detective shouting at him, could see bright flashes of light followed by horrendous flashes of pain, but it all seemed so far away. He knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that there were no clouds or rainbows. He was hallucinating, perhaps a side effect of the poison, but this knowledge did little for him. He could see the ground rushing up to meet him and all he had to do was let go, let himself crash into the earth and sleep forever.

Shawn let go. He felt a brief pain of impact and then nothing.


End file.
